


to feel dizzy, to derail the mind

by batofgoodintent (crownedcrusader)



Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No editing we die like mne, Use of Antidepressants, allergic reaction to medication, mention of suicide ideations, tim drake centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcrusader/pseuds/batofgoodintent
Summary: It's the first day of the rest of Tim Drake's life. For once, he even wants to live it.That's what the antidepressants are for.Now if only he'd actually take them.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 95





	to feel dizzy, to derail the mind

It’s Day One of the rest of Tim Drake’s life. 

It’s also the fifth time this week he’s said that. He’s technically accurate every time, because  _ that’s how time works, Tim _ , but it’s the spirit behind that mantra that he’s really betraying. He’s supposed to be taking steps to make his life worth living again. But he's been avoiding it for five days now, because every time he starts to reach for the prescription of Sertraline on his nightstand, his hand stills before he can even unscrew the lid. Because if he starts taking these, and life still feels bleak even after fixing the chemical imbalance in his brain, then what’s left? When his last hope goes wrong, what does he do then?

So he’s been waiting.

But. 

It’s Day One of the rest of Tim Drake’s life. And today, he’s sure that he wants there to be a ‘the rest of his life.’ 

And it all starts with the bottle of Sertraline on the edge of his nightstand. 

So today, he's positive, absolutely positive, that he's going to open that pill bottle.

He reaches for it, too. He even  _ picks it up _ this time. He feels brave -- almost too brave. He takes a shaky breath, reaching to unscrew the cap. He’ll need water, so he still has time to second-guess himself if he really has to. 

-But then his phone goes off, and he sets it down to check his messages.

_ Mission tonight. Emergency. _

Bruce. The mission. And with it,  _ the Mission _ . Tim can't afford to jeapordize either with his antidepressants. He can't afford to mess with his brain when lives depend on him.

He doesn't pick the prescription back up. There’s always tomorrow -- except for the days when he’s not sure there will be. 

Until then, though. Tomorrow is a beautiful, distant idea. He’ll keep waiting.

\--

Tomorrow comes just after four in the morning. 

The mission went well. And The Mission is fine, for now. Right on track. They fought back a human trafficking ring and the mafia fronting it. They even finished early enough to go on patrol. 

Tim stopped a mugging, a murder, a rape, three car-jackings, and drug deal that involved a kid. 

And he  _ almost  _ stopped a suicide. 

No matter how much else he did tonight, it’s the last one that sticks with him. 

So tomorrow comes at four in the morning, because if he doesn’t take this pill, right fucking now, he’s never going to have the will power. He’s going to fall back into that darkest cloud, going to spiral, going to choose missions with near-suicidal odds. 

He needs this prescription to fix what’s wrong with him. 

And if it doesn’t -- 

Well. 

He’ll have to handle the  _ what then _ when it comes. If it comes. 

So he takes that pill. Swallows it down with exactly one sip of water. And then he goes the hell to bed. 

\--

His dreams are more lucid than anything he’s ever faced. Except, perhaps, under fear gas or joker venom -- but those were waking nightmares. These are just dreams that feel more real than reality does. 

When Tim wakes, he feels disoriented. 

He thinks, for a minute, that he needs to call someone. That he needs to schedule an appointment for - something. There is a brief image of Bruce -- or, was it Alfred? -- sitting in for his school counselor. Making his schedule for next semester, asking him if he wants to take History of Rogues or P.E. for Robins, because he can’t do both. 

The image fades as soon as he tries to grasp it. 

There were dozens of other scenes in his dream, but Tim loses his grip on them just as quickly. The dream fades, mixing these dream fragments of the mundane with the fantastical. Bruce was never a school counselor, and Tim doesn’t need to schedule an appointment with him. 

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that he should call someone. He feels like he’s gotten no sleep tonight, even though he’s sure he was just dreaming. There’s a sense of urgency swirling in the back of his mind, telling him that he needs to get up and do something. 

So he follows it. 

He swings his legs out of bed, untangling them from the covers. 

But the instant he stands up on his own two feet, vertigo hits him so swiftly and suddenly that he’s passed out before he even hits the floor. 

\--

Tim has no idea how long he’s been passed out. 

It’s light out -- he thinks it was still dark when he fell. 

But that’s the real question now. Why did he fall -- and why does he feel sick? 

There’s a stinging in his side, too. He doesn’t remember getting hurt on patrol, so what happened? 

Was it all a dream? Was he held hostage last night and drugged? He has his first lucid thought, then -- that if he was drugged, it might have a strong reaction to his antidepressant. His breaths become shaky immediately, and he tries to push himself up off the floor. He gets halfway up, leaning on his elbows, before he hears a sound across the room.

His ears are ringing -- a side effect of low blood pressure, he thinks. It distorts the world around him; verything sounds faraway. 

Tim takes a slow, deep breath. 

Then, he lets himself lay back down. 

It takes a moment, but finally the ringing in his ears dies back down. And now, he can finally understand the sounds around him. 

“You with me, Tim?”

It’s Dick. He’d know that voice anywhere.

Tim gives a thumbs up, but doesn’t move beyond that. 

Dick lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” he says. “If you didn’t wake up on your own I was going to call an ambulance.” 

Tim tries to speak, but his mouth, he discovers, tastes like bile. And he is suddenly very aware of the scent of lemon and cleaning products around him. He frowns. Did he throw up? 

Worse -- did someone else clean it up? 

“‘S it that bad?” he manages, surprised at how weak his own voice sounds. 

“Afraid so, little brother.” Dick kneels next to Tim, and Tim feels a hand press to his cool forehead. “Don’t try to get up again. I don’t know when your blood pressure will even out. It’s a pretty rare side effect -- I think you just got unlucky.”

Tim isn’t fully sure what he’s talking about. He doesn’t see much when he opens his eyes. 

But Dick rattles a pill bottle, and Tim remembers immediately. Damn detectives. 

“Am I dying?” Tim asks. 

“Probably not. You survived the Clench and a variety of other near-death situations. I highly doubt a reaction to Sertraline is going to kill you. But it’s nothing to take lightly, either.” Dick shifts next to Tim, this time putting a hand on his shoulder. “Were you going to mention this to anyone?” 

“First time I took it,” Tim manages. 

Dick goes quiet. “You still didn’t tell anyone. This is exactly why you should tell people when you’re sick, Tim.” 

Tim opens his mouth to say that he’s not that kind of sick. But he’s pretty sure Dick already knows. He’s seen the bottle -- and even if he doesn’t recognize the name, a google search would have told him everything he needed to know. If Dick had time to clean, he had time to read the ins and outs of Tim’s prescription. 

So Tim just closes his eyes and evens out his breathing. 

“Can we save this chat for when I can actually defend myself?”

Dick hesitates. But then he gently runs a hand through Tim’s hair. “...Sure thing, little brother. We’ll talk when you wake up.” Then, he feels a blanket being pulled over him. He’s still on the floor, but Tim doesn’t mind. He doesn’t know how well he’d do if he tried to move. So he simply curls up under the blanket. “Get some rest.” 

Tim can’t do much else. So he breathes a little slower, keeps his heavy eyelids shut and sealed, and then turns off the part of the brain that normally refuses to budge. 

\--

Tim wakes up about two hours later. He’s still on the floor. Dick’s moved since then -- Tim is no longer sitting on his lap. In fact, he can no longer sense him at all. Again, he wonders if maybe this was another lucid dream. He’s sure he was just in the middle of one, too. Was Stephanie here? Or was that just his imagination? 

Before he can puzzle through it though, he hears something in the kitchen. 

Tim takes a slow, deep breath. Then, he does something really stupid, and slowly gets to his feet. It takes a lot more energy than he thought. And he has to pause on his knees for a moment, because his vision blacks out and his head swims. 

A few breaths later though, and he’s pulling himself to his feet. He’s sure that he looks as bad as he feels, but at least he’s on his feet. He goes towards the sounds in the kitchen, and finds Dick standing over the stove. 

Whatever he’s making smells great. Not even burnt. 

Tim doesn’t even remember getting groceries. Dick really is a miracle worker, if he can find something edible in Tim’s apartment. 

But standing for even a minute has made Tim feel weak and shaky, and he leans a little too heavily on the bar countertop. The sound immediately gets Dick’s attention, and he rushes to Tim’s side. 

“Did you already forget that you passed out this morning?” Dick asks. He’s just firm enough that Tim feels chided, but not so much that he feels bad about worrying him. Dick slides him into a chair, even though Tim would much rather be on the floor. Either way, he doubts he’ll get back up for a while. 

Tim takes a breath once he’s seated. “I was thinking -- I wasn’t sure if you were a dream or not.” 

Something in Tim’s tone -- or maybe the words themselves -- make Dick frown. He gives Tim a squeeze on the shoulder. Then he heads back to the stovetop so that whatever he’s making won’t burn. 

Pancakes, Tim realizes. He’s making pancakes, because that’s about all Tim has in his apartment. 

Still smells amazing, though. 

“You look like hell,” Dick says. “Do you feel ready to talk yet, or do I need to butter you up with pancakes?” 

The food smells amazing, but Tim feels so nauseous that a single bite would probably have him hurling into the trash can within minutes. It really grates against the ravenous hunger clawing at his stomach. 

“Depends,” Tim says. “I don’t know if I can actually eat anything.” 

“I’m afraid that’s not a request. The reaction you’re having isn’t going to go away until you have some food in your system.” 

Tim frowns. “Then why do I feel nauseous?” 

“Look, take it up with your anatomy and brain chemistry. I don’t get to choose how it reacts to medications. But I do know that everything I’ve looked up says to get something in your stomach as soon as you can keep it down.” 

Tim crosses his arms over his painfully empty stomach. Dick flips the pancakes one final time, then serves a few onto a plate, and sets it unceremoniously on Tim’s lap. 

Tim picks up a single unbuttered, un-syruped pancake. “I thought buttering me up would be literal.” 

A little of the tension goes out of Dick’s shoulders at that. “I guess if you’re well enough to make puns, you’ll be fine,” he says. He shakes his head, though, hair falling into his eyes before he runs a hand through it, pushing it back. “Eat. I’ll tell you what I already know, so you don’t have to deflect.” 

Tim takes a grudging bite. He doesn’t answer -- it’s enough silence for Dick to continue. 

“You’re taking 75mg of Sertraline. An antidepressant. You got your prescription several days ago, but you said you only started taking it today.” Dick pauses, looking at the way Tim eats the pancake, slowly and listlessly. “I heard a thump at six in the morning and found you passed out on the ground. You threw up, and cut yourself on the corner of your bed as you went down. Completely unresponsive, and paler than any time I’ve seen you before.” 

When Tim doesn’t answer beyond taking another bite, Dick slides him a glass of water. 

“Not many people have reactions to that medication, beyond mild side effects. And your dose isn’t that high for your body mass,” Dick says. “So. Either you’re allergic to it, and we need to get you a different prescription… or you did something really dumb, like taking your meds on an empty stomach?”

They both know it’s probably the second one. And not just because Tim’s face goes hot. 

In hindsight, he really should have looked up proper dosage and procedure. But looking it up would mean that this was real. That he was actually going to take it and put his last hope in medication. He’d been putting that off for the last week, pretending that it wasn’t looming at him from his bedside table. When was he supposed to look it up? In-between completely ignoring it? 

Still, he feels pretty embarrassed for not just sucking it up and reading the side affects or proper usage. “...No one told me I needed to.” 

Dick sighs. Then, he plops down in the seat next to Tim. “Don’t take it today. Give your system a chance to cool down. Tomorrow, we’ll see about starting -- and taking it at a normal time of day, with food.” 

The solution is great. Simple and clean. But it’s what Dick doesn’t say that makes Tim feel the most embarrassed. Dick isn’t offering to tell Bruce for him. He isn’t trying to cancel Tim’s prescription. He isn’t even asking him about the depression itself. 

It’s more generous than Tim was expecting. 

Tim looks away, feeing more embarrassed than before. Because this -- Dick just educating him on his meds and not ratting him out? This is more than Tim could have hoped for in his wildest dreams. Hell, part of him still thinks he might be having a lucid dream. “...I’m sorry I freaked you out.” 

“I thought you’d been dosed with something,” Dick admits. He frowns deeper, looking even more serious than before. “You were pale as a sheet, Tim. Your symptoms checked half the boxes for a major drug allergy, and you didn’t even tell us you were taking something new. You’ve had your prescription for a week, and this is the first time you’re having symptoms -- delayed reactions or buildups are serious-” 

“It was the first time I took it.” 

“That’s what you said before. I wasn’t sure you were thinking straight.” Dick looks thoughtful. Then, he steals a pancake from Tim’s stack. He rolls it up and takes a huge bite, clearly still thinking. “...How are you feeling?” 

Tim shrugs. “Better. Sleeping helped.” 

“Feeling nauseous now that you’re eating?” 

Tim glances down at the pancake, pauses chewing for a moment. “Not yet.” 

“I’ll keep a bucket near you. I’d rather not clean up puke again for a while.” 

Tim’s cheeks get warm again -- but before he can get too embarrassed, Dick gently punches his arm. 

“Hey -- no feeling bad. I’m glad you’re alive, Tim.” 

Dick says it so earnestly that Tim thinks he might cry on the spot. If there was a way to bottle up those words, maybe he wouldn’t need a prescription -- but he can’t, so he does. He takes another few bites, looking listlessly at the ground in front of him. 

When Tim doesn’t say anything for a while, Dick just finishes his first pancake and starts on another, leaving the rest for Tim -- who’s not sure he has the appetite for another three pancakes just yet, but he’ll wrestle down the nausea if it means not feeling so light-headed. Especially if it comes with a bonus of scaring Dick a little less. 

They eat in silence for another few minutes. But there’s a weight and a tension dividing them -- and Tim knows that they can’t avoid it forever. 

“So,” he says -- because he wants to be more than just a depressed baby brother. He wants to be a little more active in his own role. “They’re antidepressants.” 

“They are,” Dick says. “With a prescription and everything.” 

“I’m an adult.” 

“It was on your parents’ insurance, though.” Which means, You didn’t want us to know. Tim looks away, but Dick squeezes his shoulder to tell him it’s okay. “I just wish I’d known, so I could have been there for you more.” 

“Why, so I wouldn’t have to take anything?” 

Dick frowns. “Maybe. If we’d supported you more, maybe medication wouldn’t have been necessary. But that’s not the point I’m making. We should have been there for you no matter what. That’s what family is supposed to do.” 

Tim pulls his knees to his chest, barely balancing the plate. Dick gently moves it onto the table between them. “I didn’t want anyone to think something was wrong with me.” 

“It’s okay if there was. It’s not that rare for heroes to have other issues going on behind the scenes, you know.” 

“Not something like this.” 

Dick actually raises a brow. “I can’t name a single hero who doesn’t have their fair share of regular-person issues. Not all of them are my business to say, but I’m pretty sure we all have levels of PTSD, if nothing else. It counts -- and it’s not that different from this.” 

Tim looks away, staring stubbornly at the ground. 

Even without looking at Dick, though, he can see his shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. Then, Dick scoots closer and throws an arm around Tim’s shoulders. “You want to know a secret?” 

Tim swallows down a lump in his throat. “What?” 

“You’re not the only one who’s had to take medication to work through their issues.” 

“Antibiotics don’t count.” 

“I’m not talking about medicine,” Dick cuts in. “After Brother Blood got inside my head, years and years before you were ever Robin… in fact, I think I was about your age. I went through so much trauma that I physically couldn’t sleep.”

Tim frowns, furrows his brows. 

“So,” Dick continues, knowing he’s got his brother hooked, right where he wants him. “I got a prescription for sleeping pills. Not just over the counter melatonin. The heavy duty kind. Honestly, I’m not sure if they even sell them as-is anymore. They might have gotten recalled. But they helped me through a really hard time. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back there, being controlled. But I couldn’t avoid sleep forever. Sleeping meds helped. They made it easier to confront what I’d been through, because a good night’s rest is one of the best ways to actually improve mental health. It helped my insomnia, and eventually I weaned off the medication once I had a better handle on my mental health.” 

Shame colors Tim’s cheeks once more. “And that metaphor is supposed to make me feel better about  _ antidepressants _ ?” 

“Well,  _ ideally  _ it would have.” Dick squeezes Tim’s shoulder. “I know there’s a difference. If I’m being honest, I wish I would’ve had the courage to do what you did. I was too afraid to admit there was something wrong inside my head. But if you never admit it’s there, it’s kind of hard to fix it. You’re actually doing something to fix it instead of hoping time will smooth over the rough spots.” 

“You’re not going to make me feel any better, Dick,” Tim says. “No one was supposed to find out. I don’t want anyone thinking that my judgment is clouded, or I’m not capable of being a hero anymore. I don’t -- I don’t take unnecessary risks. I take care of myself, and my teammates-” 

“And no one is saying you don’t.” Dick cuts in, squeezing Tim’s shoulder again. “You’re amazing at what you do, little brother. Don’t put words in my mouth -- just because you think those things about yourself doesn’t mean I do. You’re a great hero, and no one should doubt you, whether or not they know about your prescription.”

Tim swallows another lump in his throat. He finally, finally looks up, only to find a fond, if hard to read, expression on Dick’s face. 

Then, he looks down again, eyes boring into his knees. “I’m sorry.” 

“Aw, Tim. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Dick scooches over again, then pulls him into a hug. Tim doesn’t resist -- he leans closer, even shifting his knees down so he can actually hug back. 

It feels good. Better than he’s felt in ages. 

Again -- if he could bottle this feeling, maybe he wouldn’t have needed antidepressants. 

But Dick pulls away, and shame fills Tim again so quickly that he remembers why he needs them. He feels weak for wanting this affection, and embarrassed of that weakness, and embarrassed of that embarrassment. His brain is a cocktail of everything but serotonin and dopamine, and he’s not sure if it’ll ever be right again. 

He hopes it will, though. And when Dick playfully cuffs his head, Tim knows that he’s got one person in his corner. 

“...Are you going to tell B?” Tim asks, as he finally starts in on his pancakes again. 

Dick hums, clearly thinking it over. “I wasn’t planning on it. If you want him to know but don’t know how to tell him yourself, I can be the messenger. But if you don’t want him to know, I won’t mention it unless it becomes an emergency.” 

“This morning wasn’t an emergency?” 

Dick manages a wry smile. “I had a similar reaction to my sleeping pills, back in the day,” he admits. “Kory found me one morning, passed out on the ground. I hadn’t eaten in almost two days, so the pills hit me way harder than they were supposed to.” 

Tim’s eyes go wide. “ _ You _ ?”

“Hey! I was your age. Back in the day, I’d just been kicked out. I didn’t have a cool bat-family-figure to tell me all the dangers and side-effects of medication.” He playfully elbows Tim in the side. “So consider this a bonus. A lot of medications are supposed to be taken with food. And a lot of those can lead to a sudden drop in blood pressure or blood sugar if you don’t eat. For regular people, that’s reason enough to take your meds with food. But for us -- we burn calories so fast that it’s twice as important. It’s better to take your meds a few hours early or a few hours late rather than taking them without food. Got all that, or should I write it down?” 

Tim takes an over-dramatic bite of his pancake. “I’m listening.” 

Dick grins, then ruffles his hair. “You realize I could be saying anything to get you to take care of yourself right now, right? I could tell you that hydration is the key to everything just to get you to drink more water -- or that it’s mandatory to get at least six hours of sleep a night.” 

“You’re not selling this very well,” Tim says. “Is this just a nudge for me to read through the instructions, or?”

“It’s a nudge to ask me if you have questions. And to take care of yourself, because you do need your body in good condition for your medication to work as well as it’s supposed to,” Dick says. “Just… go easy on yourself. Prioritize yourself, because no one else knows what you need better than you do.” 

“I’m not the best at that.” 

“Maybe not. But you’re going to learn,” Dick says. He squeezes Tim’s upper arm. Then, in an even stronger burst of affection, pulls him into another hug. 

Tim leans into it, and rests his cheek on Dick’s shoulder. “I’m gonna be fine, Dick,” he says -- because he needs to reassure his brother. And because he hopes it’s true. 

Dick squeezes him back. “I know. And I’m so proud of you for doing what you need to to make that happen.” 

It’s the first day of the rest of Tim Drake’s life, he realizes. His antidepressants aren’t perfect, and they aren’t going to fix everything. But they’re helping -- and taking that first step forward is pretty damn important. 


End file.
